


Third Floor, Second Door

by Amodelofefficiency



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amodelofefficiency/pseuds/Amodelofefficiency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The halls of Pemberley Digital are never particularly quiet. At any given moment there might by the rustle of papers or the patter of feet, or the muted sounds of workers conversing or chatting amicably with each other on their way to coffee in the break room. There is always someone in the halls going somewhere; always someone willing to chat, and William Darcy has grown accustomed to the constant buzz of people around him and outside his office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Floor, Second Door

**Author's Note:**

> SHAMELESS. I AM SHAMELESS. this was actually written last thursday night but I was unable to post it due to severe fangirl trauma being inflicted over the weekend. Has been on my tumblr, however, so if you are a cool cat and hang out there than you might have already seen it.

* * *

 

The halls of Pemberley Digital are never particularly quiet.

At any given moment there might by the rustle of papers or the patter of feet, or the muted sounds of workers conversing or chatting amicably with each other on their way to coffee in the break room. There is always someone in the halls going somewhere; always someone willing to chat, and William Darcy has grown accustomed to the constant buzz of people around him and outside his office.

It’s a comfort, really, to know that the company’s many employees are both working diligently and enjoying themselves, and when ever he hears a particularly loud chuckle, or the drumming of feet rushing down halls, he can’t help but smile.

 

* * *

 

It’s late afternoon and he’s sat through three board meetings already – lunch was a five minute break with bad coffee and half a chicken sandwich and Mrs. Reynolds chattering in his ear about a video conference that was being pushed forward to Friday. Now, and the sun is setting low across the Bay, creeping through the vertical blinds and slanting light across his desk in little patches. He has reports spread before him and a pack of mints that he chews on occasionally as he glances at his computer – this time last year and they were reporting a profit in nearly all sectors; now and he’s trying to figure out why the budget for his graphics department won’t balance in the month of May.

It’s warm for early spring and he has his jacket thrown over the back of his chair and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His glasses are perched at the tip of his nose and he takes a moment to nudge them back up, rubbing the corner of his eyes wearily in the process. There’s a dull ache in his temple and he’s blaming it on the glare off his computer screen – if he were smart he would shut it down and perhaps drink some water, or eat a cracker, or sleep. But he has a deadline on a fiscal report and now that the videoconference with investors has been bumped up to Friday he has to have everything sorted by Thursday afternoon.

He pulls his glasses off a moment and rests his head in his hands, closing his eyes – a few more hours and he should be able to go home; until then he blindly reaches for another mint and winces as the stark, cool taste curls down the back of his throat.

There’s a light knock on the door and then Mrs. Reynolds is peeping her head around the edge of it, a raised eyebrow asking if he’s busy and when she sees that he’s alone, with his head slumped in his hands and his glasses dangling from his fingertips, she tuts loudly and walks briskly across the office, placing a hot mug of tea before him and standing at the end of his desk until he responds.

“Thank you,” he tells her, voice rough but honest, and she has a deep frown etched across her face as his voice croaks.

“Drink,” she demands, and then turns on her heel and walks quickly out again.

In all the years he’s known Anne Reynolds (basically his whole life; he’s pretty sure she interrupted his father at the hospital when he was born with a message about investors) she’s never once been over indulgent, or mothering – she’s practical and knowledgeable and always, always on time. But without fail, she’ll bring him tea if he’s been in his office for more than four hours, or peep her head around the door to check on him if it’s late at night – once he even found her reheating leftovers she’d brought from home when she’d noticed that he’d been picking at muesli bars and nothing else for three days straight.

The tea is earl grey and smoky hot down his throat – it warms him and sends a quick shiver down his spine, and already he feels a little more human. There’s a gentle knock at the door again and Stephen from IT sticks his head around it, wild curly hair threatening to spill over his eyes as he smiles – his lips always raised up on the right – and Will gestures him forward. “What can I do for you?” he asks, ever formal, and Stephen merely shakes his head.

“No, nothing. Everything’s fine this afternoon. But I ran into someone in the hallway and they asked me to give you this.”

Stephen steps forward, an awkward little shuffle, and holds out a hand with a folded piece of paper clutched inside. It’s light in Darcy’s fingers as he grasps it and he can see little smudges of ink stained around one corner; the paper is worn and obviously recycled and he can’t fathom who would possibly send him a hastily scribbled note.

Stephen grins at Darcy like he knows something but is loath to say it to his boss and Will feels a spike of curiosity do battle with his better conscious – he has reports to go over and a business to uphold and really, no time for games.

But the paper is so inviting and it’s now obvious whom it’s from.

 “Thank you Stephen,” he murmurs, and settles back at his desk.

When the other man has gone he slowly pries the crumpled note open – her loopy handwriting is scrawled across it in blue pen and nowadays he can’t help the slow turn of his lips - the happy, tight feeling nestled in his chest – because of her, anymore than he can help breathing.

_Third floor, take the first corridor on the left – then the second door. You have ten minutes._

It’s a game she started over a year ago when she’d stumbled into his office only to find him half asleep and heading towards a migraine. He doesn’t get them often, only once or twice a year when he’s not careful (read: forgets to eat, sleep and drink water), and can still remember the irrational fear underlying her soft hands and hushed voice as she’d pulled him up and over to the couch – laid him down and brought him a cup of water and some painkillers and then tucked herself in against the couch on the floor, close by his head to drift her fingers through his hair.

Since then she’s made a point to check in on him occasionally; texts for coffee dates and shared sandwiches overlooking the Bay and when they have more time; lunch at a local restaurant – little moments that allow them contact, but also the opportunity to ensure the other has survived the day.

And then, slowly, he’d started receiving messages – post it notes stuck to his computer whilst he’s in meetings or hushed codes passed to him via Gigi (their ever faithful cheerleader); crumpled pieces of paper left in his coat pockets and now, it seems, clues delivered via messenger.

He’s down the hall before he can think twice about the budget and waits impatiently for the elevators, pressing his finger to the button and holding it down. Grace from accounting walks by and eyes him oddly, smiling as she notes his overenthusiastic clicks – he nods in her direction and then slithers through the elevator doors when they arrive, pressing the button for the third floor and feeling his heart beat quicken as the car moves upwards.

His skin feels tight around the edges and his limbs are taught; just the thought of seeing her can move him to physical distraction and as the elevator doors finally reopen he spins out quickly and to the left, down the corridor. He knows the room he’s headed towards and can only guess as to why she’s decided on  _that_ location for their little rendezvous.

He opens the second door on the right and it creaks slowly – it’s a thick, metal door and it resists his movements; he’s distracted by it and thus it takes him a moment to realise that all the lights are off, only the soft glow of a lamp in the far corner illuminating a small bubble surrounding it - otherwise the room is silent and still.

For a brief moment he panics; his hands sweat and his heartbeat quickens and he thinks, oh god maybe it wasn’t her, maybe this is one of those movies –  _those movies where the rich guy ends up dead and at the bottom of the Bay_  –but then there’s a low chuckle and a figure steps out before him and Lizzie’s fiery auburn hair glows in curls that frame her face as she holds a torch beneath her chin and grins.

“Good afternoon,” she intones darkly, and Will reaches out a hand to grasp her forearm tight; thinks –  _I really need to stop watching those movies she insists upon._

“You scared me,” he breathes, and she rocks forward; leaves the torch lying idly on a stack of crates by her side and it takes Will a moment to realise they’re standing amongst a long row of costumes. There are thick fur coats and frilly cabaret dresses and a few t-shirt’s that look suspiciously like they belong in a  _Wham!_ video clip. He steps to the side so that he’s not pressed against rows of soft material and Lizzie ends up close against his chest, playing with the ends of his tie. Her fingers skim his stomach and he sucks in a sharp breath; Lizzie smiles knowingly and trails her hands up his chest to rest just under his throat.

She leans up on tip-toes (and he thinks back to this morning, watching her get dressed from the foot of the bed whilst he laid back against the pillows, and she’d definitely been wearing flats) so he scoops an arm low around her waist to hold her steady and secure. “You feeling okay?” she asks softly, lips pressed to the underside of his jaw, and his hand travels slowly down the arch of her back to rest at the dimples behind her hips, rubbing gently.

“Yes, better now,” he mumbles, intoxicated, and then as she presses forward a little and her lips hit where his jaw line meets soft tufts of hair, he manages to ask, “And you?”

She giggles, and the sensation shoots down his spine and echoes through the lines of his fingers. “Perfect,” she sighs.

He rocks her gently, blinks his eyes closed in the near dark and presses his nose to her hair as she nuzzle his cheek; “I have to go back in a minute,” he mumbles against her temple, and she whines but doesn’t say anything – digs her fingers into the small of his back and he’ll be feeling the phantom press all evening.

“Have I told you how much I love this though?” he questions, and the room is soft and dark and her voice is more of a whimper as it huffs against his chest – he smiles against her temple and goes to speak at the same time she does; their words mix and jumble and they’re always talking over one another, but this times it’s different, infused with a desperate longing.  

“Have I told you how much I love you –“

“We should get married –“

 

* * *

 

There’s an awkward pause and Will stops their gentle sway and Lizzie has stiffened in his arms, eyes blown wide and glistening against the one light in the corner of the room. He pulls her back from his chest and holds her close but with enough distance to meet her gaze – she’s darting a glance across his features and he tries to smile, really does, though he’s sure it comes out somewhere more near a wince.

“Beg pardon?” he hesitates, finally, and she tips forward and buries her head against his chest to groan, long and low and sinful.

“Lizzie,” he grumbles, because she’s wriggly and gorgeous and five seconds ago asked him to  _marry her;_ and it’s doing things to his insides.“Lizzie, talk to me,” he grunts, and finally succeeds in prying her vice grip from his chest.

“Please forget that,” she whispers, high and nervous, and for a second he considers her request; but then, “No.”

“What?”

Her eyes are wide and dark and he can just make out the slight turn of her lips as she gazes up at him; his heart's beating double and ten minutes ago he was sipping tea and agonizing over a fiscal report but now she’s standing before him and marriage is on the table. It’s their anniversary in three days and Will’s had a ring sitting in the locked drawer of his study for months now; he was going to wait – had planned a speech and a moment – the beach was involved, and champagne, and lots of stumbled words.

_But now?_

He drops quickly without thinking and she hits him achingly hard on his shoulder, hissing “ _stop_ ,” but he’s already knelt on one knee and her hand is held in his so he takes a deep breath; takes a second to collect his words and finally settles on the bare truth.  

“Lizzie Bennet – “

And she whines pitifully, “Will,  _no_.”

“Please marry me?” voice earnest, deep and tumbling with love.

There’s a second, a brief terrifying moment, when he’s three years ago and sitting on a chair at Collins and Collins and confessing his love to this woman, blindly waiting for her reply – and whilst he doesn’t like to dwell on that time often, he can’t help but think of it. The slight widening of her eyes; the hitch in her breath and the blush on her cheeks; for a second he thinks she might be serious and his heart stops but then she’s hiccupping through a laugh and tugging at his arm to get him to stand and he follows her movements blindly ( _will always follow her blindly_ ).

“Yes,” she mumbles, teeth caught around his bottom lip, “Yes, yes; you  _idiot_  - but yes,” and she’s kissing him; long and slow and intimate, like that very first time and every time in between; like  _good morning_  and  _I love you_  and  _how was work, darling_  and  _wash the dishes, please_ ; like the warmth of the sun when they sit on the beach and the drift of the wind through her hair tickling his cheek.

And he thinks, yes - this is where I’m supposed to be.


End file.
